Exercises in Futility
by CCroquette
Summary: Tarsus IV has long since left its mark, and sometimes there's nothing to be done except pick up the pieces.


The noise is what does it.

Bones is sleeping, finally, getting a long-deserved rest after the week from hell and the month from hell before that - goddamn kids wouldn't know caution if it jumped up and bit them in the ass, and judging from the injuries he's seen, it probably _has_ once or twice - when a loud crash from the doorway startles him awake.

He's not a light sleeper, by any means, but years of late-night trauma shifts have left him hardwired to respond to any potential catastrophe, and even half-alert he knows Jim Kirk smashing into shit is nothing but a disaster in the making.

Thus awakened, and strongly considering the prospect of homicide (if only it didn't conflict so thoroughly with 'do no harm') he casts a bleary glance at the door and is greeted by the sight of Jim struggling out of his boots and jacket, uncharacteristically graceless.

Drunk, then.

Bones frowns as Jim staggers out of the entryway, a hand against the wall for support, and into their small shared room. He could never pass for a dancer or a gymnast, but he's usually got more coordination than this, even after he's had a few.

Wary, he watches as Jim stumbles into the sleeping area and grimaces when the fumes hit him - Jim smells like a distillery.

Really drunk, then.

Huh.

Bones watches him, half-awake and faintly amused, until Jim stops in the space between their two beds and looks around, bewildered. Bones's brow furrows. He gets all of a split second to realize that Jim's stopped, staring at _his_ bed, and before he even has the chance to think through a profanity Jim gives up the balancing act and flops down next to him. He starts, ready to shove him out, but quicker than anything Jim twines one gangly arm around him and he's well and thoroughly _trapped._

Forget coordination, Jim's also usually got enough sense to keep to his own bed.

Shit.

"The hell, Jim?" he rasps. "Get off!"

Jim grumbles something incoherent by way of a response, and a repeated request only elicits a mumbled, "Bones?"

That does it.

If Jim's awake enough to answer, he's awake enough to mind his manners. After a brief but fierce struggle Bones frees an arm and uses it to give him a shove. "Off, dammit!"

Jim, the bastard, only grabs onto it, entrenching himself deeper. For one infuriating second Bones even thinks he sees a hint of a drunken smile before Jim murmurs, "Bones," and snores lightly, well and truly asleep.

Dammit.

He sighs, and give the chronometer a long-suffering look. 0337. Frustration wars with fatigue and loses. He has to be up for a shift in two hours, and it'll take a lot longer to boot Jim back into his own bed than it will to just close his eyes and let it be. He'll deal with it when he's had some rest.

With a nagging voice in the back of his head insisting that he's too old and tired for this shit, he closes his eyes, and tries to settle in. Sleep finally finds him twenty minutes later, too worn-out to care much about his newfound bedmate, now that the shock's worn off.

By the time he wakes up Jim is gone, and it's only the stink of alcohol on his sheets that tells him he didn't imagine it.

* * *

It happens again.

The next night - the next morning, really - is a repeat performance. Jim stumbles in at 0325, tripping over his own feet, making enough noise to wake the dead, but at least he picks the right bed this time.

It's still a blasted annoyance, and when dawn rolls around Bones is even less pleased to discover that Jim's already gone, thoroughly scuttling his plans to give him a stern lecture on _not being a goddamned idiot_. When Bones gets to work, the nurses all hide in the supply closet and it takes two pots of near-nuclear coffee to make him personable again. He heads back to the dorm that night half-buzzed and ready to rip someone a new something but in the end it's all for naught. The room's empty.

No Jim.

Frowning so deeply it's almost painful, even after years of practice, he grabs his notes and half-studies, half-watches the door until he can't concentrate and it's too late to do anything but sleep. He climbs into bed at 0124, still frowning.

* * *

When it happens a third time - 0318; at least Jim has the decency to come in a little earlier, not that it makes a goddamned difference - Bones decides that whatever the fuck Jim is doing, it's gone on long enough.

He feigns sleep through the now-usual stumblings and sprawling collapse, and once he's sure Jim's good and _out_, he gets up and ventures a closer look. Jim's been drinking, for sure - the fumes alone are probably enough to get Bones tipsy - but that's apparently par for the course this week. The black eye, however, isn't, nor is the scabbing-over lip, or the nose that's still bleeding, faintly. Bones considers.

For all his hard-partying reputation, Jim doesn't normally drink this much, and never, ever on weeknights. Bones can't even remember how long it's been since he came home with a busted-up face. He scowls up at the ceiling.

Something's wrong.

Something's definitely wrong and since Jim is a stubborn bastard who doesn't know how to admit things, Bones is probably the only one who _knows_ something's wrong. Which means that he's the one who has to fix it.

Dammit.

With a heavy sigh he pulls a chair up between the two beds, propping his feet on the edge of the mattress to block Jim's inevitable escape, and settles in with his medkit on his lap, cursing stubborn bastards and his own meddling nature.

He supposes he'll sleep when he's dead.

—

Jim seems to be living by the same philosophy, as three hours later he lurches out of bed and is distinctly unhappy to see Bones blocking his way.

"Bones?" he croaks, and mutters a series of half-intelligible grunts that work out to something approximating, "Whatthefuck?"

"'Mornin' to you too," Bones drawls. "Nice of you to say hi for once."

Immediately Jim's eyes narrow, his face falls. In the light the injuries look even worse, the bruises starting to yellow. Before Bones can even open his mouth, he says, "I'm fine."

Sure. "You looked in a mirror lately?"

In reply, Jim grumbles something indecipherable and uncharitable and makes to leave, but Bones stays where he is, unmoving.

Jim halts, looming over him, looking unimpressed. "_What_, Bones?"

Oh, this is gonna be fun. Damn kids. "Sit down. We need to talk."

"Bones, look, I'd be happy to catch up with you some other time but right now I can't. I have class- "

"No, you don't." Bones smiles, tightly. "I checked."

Jim glares daggers, caught in a lie, but he does sit. "What are you, my mom?"

Knowing what very little he does of Jim's former home life, Bones suspects he may be doing a better job - and how fucked-up is that? - but this is neither the time nor the place. He crosses his arms, leans back in his chair, and says, calmly, "You're either going to tell me what's going on or you're going to be telling it to Medical."

The glare softens, edged now with very real worry. "You wouldn't."

"Try me." He doesn't plan to, except as a last resort, but Jim doesn't need to know that and in the end he's the one who looks away first.

The talking's opened up Jim's lip again, and he brings up a hand to pinch away the blood.

"Hey," Bones says, and holds out the medkit, a peace offering. "At least let me fix your face."

Jim says nothing, but he doesn't turn away, and Bones figures that's as much of an agreement as he's going to get. Jim sits in stony silence as he goes about his business, closing wounds and mending tissue, and wondering what the fuck it all means. When he's done the bruises are still there, but the blood's gone, the nose set back where it should be. Better, a little.

As he clicks the last piece of equipment back into place, he gives it another try. "I don't suppose you wanna tell me how this happened."

"It's nothing."

"It's nothing? Let's see." Bones raises a hand, and starts counting things off on his fingers. "You're not sleeping, you're getting into fights, you've suddenly developed a drinking problem -"

Jim snorts, incredulous. "I do _not_ have a drinking problem!"

Bones continues on, undeterred, "When someone starts drinking more than I do, they have a problem. What the hell is going on, Jim?"

"Leave it, Bones. I'm _fine_!"

It's so obviously not true that Bones doesn't bother dignifying it with a response. He raises an eyebrow, instead, and waits.

After what seems like an eternity of silence, Jim finally mutters, "It's none of your business, anyway."

"When you're wakin' me up at three in the morning for cuddles, I think that makes it my business."

A flash of hurt sparks in Jim's eyes and Bones feels more than a generous twinge of guilt. He pinches the bridge of his nose and decides that yes, he is very much too old and very much too tired for this. "Aw, hell, kid, I didn't mean it like that, but dammit, I can't help you unless you tell me what's wrong."

"You can't help anyway."

"Says who?"

Jim scrubs a hand across his face, wordlessly, and finally reaches to the bedside table and tosses him a PADD.

Taking it's a mistake. No sooner does he look down to see what's on it than Jim makes a break for it, shoving his way past him and practically vaulting out the door.

Shit.

For a moment Bones contemplates chasing him down, but with the way things are going it probably won't do any good. He looks down at the device in his hands again, catching the timestamp. Whatever it is, Jim was looking at it this morning.

With a sigh, he starts to read.

**Command Tactics 201: Introduction to Humanitarian Operations**

**This three-week module will culminate in an examination worth 27% of your final grade. Though this assignment is ungraded, you will find it to be useful practice. The examination will feature different variables than those present here, but the goals will be the same:**

**Provide humanitarian assistance to civilians sufficient to resolve both immediate and ongoing issues.**

**Provide peacekeeping and diplomatic assistance sufficient to prevent any conflict from spreading. **

**Do the above with minimum risk to both Starfleet and civilian personnel and minimal resulting casualties. **

**You will be evaluated on your ability to adapt to a rapidly changing situation and make appropriate choices. You are advised to think through your decisions carefully. **

**A practical examination will take place on April 12 in Simulation Center B. You will have four hours to complete the examination. Reference materials, outside assistance, and telepathic communication will not be allowed. You will work alone. **

Fresh out of any other ideas, he taps** BEGIN BRIEFING**

As near as he can tell, the assignment's pretty standard stuff. A farming colony on the outer fringes of the Federation fell victim to a series of disasters, leading to complete depletion of agricultural resources and a resulting food shortage. The colonists, having already been experiencing political strife prior to the advent of the crisis, have now factionalized, leading to an imminent civil war. As the leader of a Federation relief force it's Jim's job to mediate between the warring parties and get aid through to the areas that need it before the people starve.

Jim's gone through the entire assignment no less than six times. The latest attempt took place at 0054 this morning. Jim prevented the war, and managed to deliver aid in time for most of the civilians to make it, but the results page is all crossed out, and after the assignment there are dozens upon dozens of scribbled notes, everything from chemistry - something to do with crops, Bones thinks - to potential modifications to the warp engines. He flips back through Jim's previous attempts and sees the same sorts of things - Jim's taking this extremely seriously.

Bones frowns.

Jim's a stubborn bastard who doesn't know what's good for him, but his grades are impeccable. _This_ level of obsession is a little much, though, even for him - even his first attempt would have been enough to give him a high score. There's something else going on and Bones has absolutely no idea what it is.

He thinks on it in classes that morning, and is no closer to an answer by the time he gives in to lack of sleep. When Jim comes crashing in at four in the morning he's practically happy to be woken up, because now maybe it'll make some goddamn sense.

Jim stumbles over to the sleeping area, and catches his foot on the chair in the process. When he hits the floor he doesn't bother getting up to bed, just folds his legs under him and sits, staring.

Bones looks down at him, sitting there, and bites back every question he's dying to have answered. He grabs the PADD instead, and slowly, carefully slides down to sit across from him. Jim says nothing.

"I had a look at this," he ventures. "And it seems to me like you're doing pretty well. What's the problem?"

Jim just laughs, and it's got a harsh edge to it that's definitely not happy. For once, though, Bones gets an answer. "Ever heard of a colony called Tarsus IV?"

Tarsus?

Tarsus was the usual homestead story - a handful of frontier types thought they could do better, got themselves a planet, and set up shop. Everything was hunky-dory until the blight struck, things went to shit, and no one had a backup plan that didn't involve a revolution. By the time Starfleet got there, half the population was dead, the other half was dying, and a genocidal mass-murderer had escaped justice in what was probably the most suspicious "death" Bones had ever heard of.

Tarsus was the very definition of 'clusterfuck.'

It also happened long enough ago that it should be a lesson relegated to the history books, not the reason Jim's been on a four-day bender. His eyes narrow."Why?"

"Why the fuck do you think?"

No.

He can't have been - but then he _looks_ at him and Jim's expression tells him all he needs to know.

He was.

This time it's Bones who looks away first. He stares down at the PADD still in his hands and it all clicks.

Tarsus.

He's been through that and now they have him working on a simulated _food crisis_?

Shit.

"That's - " he says, and stops himself. It's what?

It isn't goddamned fair, but _life_ isn't goddamned fair, and in the field he's not going to have the luxury of picking and choosing his missions. Better to work through it now when the only people getting hurt are simulations - and himself. If he is working through it. "There's counseling -"

Jim's laugh interrupts him, humorless and broken. Bones looks more closely at him and sees that he's not at all as drunk as Bones thought he was, probably nowhere near as drunk as he wants to be. When he finally speaks his voice comes out wrapped around the edges of a smirk that Bones knows he doesn't feel. "Are you kidding? They'd kick me out."

"They can't do that."

"Can't doesn't mean won't."

Bones sighs. There's plenty of people who are looking for any excuse to drop Jim, plenty of people who would see seeking help as a sign of weakness, no matter how reasonable it was, and even if that weren't officially the reason it would definitely be good enough reason for them to find something else. It shouldn't be the case, but he knows damn well it is.

That doesn't mean he has to like it. "So you're going to drink yourself into a coma every night?"

"If it works. Gotta sleep somehow."

"Shit, Jim, you're doing all that so you can sleep? Should've said something sooner." Bones resists the urge to roll his eyes, and reaches up, sleep-clumsy, to pat him on the arm. "Wait here. I'll get you something."

He hasn't even gotten to his feet when a word from Jim stops him. "No."

"Jim -"

"_No._ No drugs. Those things always give me fucked-up dreams and I don't want to see the-" He cuts himself off, abruptly, sucks in a shaking breath.

Bones's voice is gentle. "Don't want to see the what?"

* * *

_Bodies._

_Bodies everywhere, stacked like cordwood in the medical center's makeshift morgue. He hadn't meant to see them, hadn't meant to come this way. He heard there were scientists working on a way to fix the blight and wanted to try to help, but they'd told him to go back home. Several wrong turns later, he wound up here._

_They're not buried, won't be, yet - no one's strong enough to dig anymore, and there's no spare power to use for anything but keeping the living alive. A stasis field is the best anyone can do and they're all hoping against hope that it won't fail. A few diehard pragmatists complain that it's taking power away from the labs, where they're trying to cobble together a few primitive protein synthesis units, but it's less energy-intensive than vaporizing them and nobody wants to think about it much._

_He stares, and stares, and wants to be sick but he hasn't eaten anything to be sick with. In the end he runs home to a house of empty cupboards and tries his very best not to think._

_He tries not to, as hunger becomes weakness becomes lethargy, as Tarsus takes its toll. Even then he can't stop. He closes his eyes and sees them and wonders how long it will be before he's stacked up in that room, along with everyone he knows._

_When he gets back to Earth they tell him to rest, shoot him full of more drugs than he can count to help him sleep. No one ever listens when he says sleep isn't helping._

_Every time he closes his eyes, he sees them, gaunt and pale, looking like little more than stick-figure drawings, faces contorted in an emaciated parody of the people - neighbors, classmates, friends - he used to know._

_Bodies, all, reaching out for help he couldn't give._

* * *

Jim doesn't answer, and Bones looks down to see his hands - knuckles scraped and scabby, fingernails blackened - trembling almost imperceptibly against his legs.

"All right," he says. He puts a hand on Jim's shoulder, and squeezes. Jim doesn't look at him. "All right. No drugs."

Jim doesn't answer, and there in the half-moonlit dark he suddenly looks so _young_.

Tarsus.

He couldn't have been more than what - twelve, thirteen? - when it happened. Not so very much older than -

Bones swallows thickly. "C'mere."

"No."

The word's got no bite behind it, and he looks into Jim's eyes and doesn't see anything to back it up. He squeezes a little tighter, tugs him forward, gently. "_C'mere,_ Jim."

Jim could twist away, easy, but he doesn't. He lets Bones pull him in until he's leaning against him, leather jacket reeking of liquor and blood and sticky against Bones's skin. Any other time he'd complain about hygiene, but right now he doesn't care.

He curls an arm around Jim's back, strong enough to hold him up but loose enough to leave him a way out, if he wants, and tries to figure out where to go from here.

Tarsus.

Fuck.

Fraction by fraction, Jim leans into the touch, head coming to rest on Bones's shoulder, arms drawn up against his own chest, legs partway folded. He doesn't relax, though, and Bones can feel the tension running through his muscles, shivering down his spine. Jim shifts, once, makes to say something, but then his breath catches in his throat and his shoulders tighten and there are no more sounds forthcoming.

Bones puts his other arm around him, murmuring reassuring half-nonsense, and hopes that maybe, maybe it'll do something to help.

They sit there together on the floor until Bones's voice starts to go and light peeks in through the windows. The hand around Jim's shoulders drops to take him under the arms and with a careful grip Bones hauls him up.

"C'mon," he says softly, in the voice he uses on frightened children and people pointing weapons the wrong way, "Let's get you to bed."

Jim goes with him, unresisting.

The next morning, as per usual, he wakes to an empty room.


End file.
